


Dodging a Bullet

by thisbluespirit



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Fainting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 12:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: The Doctor's going to be injured at some point in the future.  He can tell, because he's feeling the impact right now.  Sometimes time travel is like that.





	Dodging a Bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).



> A small treat for you.

1.

The pain explodes within him as he’s standing in the TARDIS, and his hand on the controls trembles. What was he doing? Where is he? When is he? And the pain –

He sways forward, lights flickering on the console, bringing him back to awareness of the TARDIS. “Nothing to worry about, old girl,” he murmurs, and then grits his teeth against the inexplicable pain again, eyes closing as he leans forward, trying to draw strength from her.

The pain is on his right side – is it his heart? Lucky he’s got two, then. He’ll be all right – he can ignore it, get back to the business in hand. Of course he can.

The Doctor pulls down the nearest lever, straightens up and grins at his space/time machine, before the console room turns a bit oddly, and he’s got time to think that he’s pretty sure he never put the floor there, who’s been moving things about in his TARDIS, before he’s out for the count.

 

He opens his eyes and surveys a plain white plaster ceiling. A further check reveals that he seems to be in a normal bed and that’s even weirder. It’s got fluffy pillows.

“Doctor,” says a familiar voice and he feels the pressure of a hand squeezing his, and then Clara Oswald’s face comes into view. There are red blotches on her face and her dark eyes seem to have grown again. He wishes they’d stop doing that. One day she’ll have no face left and then what will they do? Mind, he once had a great friend who was a pair of eyeballs on stilts. Not the wittiest conversationalist, though.

Clara sniffs. “Doctor,” she says again, as if it’s him she’s crying over, but he’s fine, that’s silly. He’s always fine. Even if technically he isn’t, the difference is immaterial.

He coughs. “Yes. Hello.”

“You had me worried,” she says, sounding a little less tragic. “The TARDIS materialising right in here, you falling out of it. I thought you were dead.”

He grins. “Not me. No.” Then he sits up and Clara’s bedroom starts spinning, which does liven it up a bit, but it’s rather disorientating. How does she manage?

Clara puts a hand to his shoulder. “Hey. Careful. Don’t go passing out on me again. I’ve got to go back to school tomorrow – can’t hang around here, nursing reckless old Time Lords who can’t take proper care of themselves.”

The spinning stops. The pain that he remembers now has gone anyway. The rest is probably just exhaustion – who knows how long it was before the old girl got him here? – but his system’ll soon fix that with the right tools to hand.

“Tea,” he says. “Six sugars. Ought to do the trick.”

Clara smiles and his heart – which is fine now, both of them are – gives an awkward, erratic jump, because it shouldn’t be him she’s wasting that sort of wattage on, but he can’t say he’s sorry either.

“Tea,” she says, and laughs, before drawing back, rubbing her eyes, and then leaning forward once more to kiss him on the forehead. “Whatever it was, don’t you dare do it again.”

That could be a bit difficult. He’s still not sure what it was he did. At least if it happens again, he might find out. “No. Scout’s honour. Or Guide’s. Whichever one it’s supposed to be.”

Clara poked her head back round the door. “Oh, and if you’ve got a bump on your head, I’m really sorry about that, but it’s not easy lugging unconscious Time Lords about.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” he says. “I’ve always been an idiot. Won’t make much difference.”

He thinks about getting up, but settles himself back against the fluffy pillows. He’s not enjoying the fussing, though. Not really. It’s boring, isn’t? But he’ll lie here a little while long so as not to spoil things for her. 

Plus, there’s tea coming.

* * *

2.

“Hey,” says Bill, grabbing his arm. “Doctor? You okay?”

He shakes himself, despite the warning twinge of pain in his chest. “Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, for one thing, your face has gone grey.” Bill studies him with scientific interest he approves of, and concern that is, of course, only irrelevant. It doesn’t touch his heart with an elusive warmth before pain blooms into something that robs him of breath. He groans out as Bill, hanging onto him, lowers him onto the rug. (The rug she bought him, now it’s holding him, enveloping him in its colours and unspoken love.)

Bill puts a hand to his face, wide-eyed in alarm. How funny. Now her eyes have started growing, too. It might be getting infectious, possibly it’s an alien conspiracy. Can’t have that sort of thing going about.

“Hey,” she says, squeezing his arm with her other hand to draw his attention back to her. “What is it? Should I call an ambulance? No, they wouldn’t know what to do –” She stares down at him. “Doctor.”

He merely nods, unable to manage more. No human hospitals; twice was enough for a hundred lifetimes. Archaic medical treatment, never fun for anyone, especially not him.

“What is it?” she tries again. “Please, tell me.”

He frowns, struggling not to let go again, to fly away on this magic carpet. “Happened before. Think I might know – on the tip of my tongue?”

“What, saliva?” says Nardole from somewhere out of vision. “Is he making a fuss about something again? I’ve just hoovered that rug. Not that it was a bother, I’ve put in this handy extension –”

“Help him!” says Bill, and that’s when the Doctor decides to leave them for a bit. It’s all a bit much right now, and not very interesting anyway.

 

When he wakes up, it’s night, and his best pupil is lying on the rug next to him in a sleeping bag.

“Bill? Is something wrong?”

She blinks, wakes with typical human slowness, and then, leans on her hand, looking at him with a faint smile. “Anything wrong, he says. I thought you were a goner for a bit. Thought someone ought to stay with you. All Nardole would do was say he was almost 99.8% sure you’d be fine again in half an hour or maybe nearer four. Said he’d been told to expect it and I shouldn’t worry too much. I suppose I should have listened.”

He smiles back. “Never listen to Nardole. Besides, since you’re here, and it’s night – fancy some star-gazing?”

“Why not?” says Bill, and helps him up. She gives him a sideways, bemused glance. “You are sure you’re all right, though?”

He shrugs. “Oh, I gave up on being all right a long time ago. Best not to worry about it.”

He takes her hand as they walk away, her human fingers so very warm against his, and there’s that corresponding feeling in his heart again. Best not to think about it, of course, but if he stopped to do so, he might admit that he likes it a lot.

It’s good to have a friend.

* * *

3.

It’s worse this time. But if all these linear hours and minutes on Darillium can get a bit much, at least the pain marks this moment out from the rest.

“What’s wrong?” River says, suddenly at his side, as if she felt it herself. He doesn’t know how she does that. She strokes his brow. “You’re cold. Colder than usual. What is it?”

He shuts his eyes against the burst of agony somewhere above his right heart and hopes she won’t mind if he goes away for a bit.

 

“Doctor,” she says, when he comes round. “I’ve taken a thorough scan.” She gestures with an improbable handheld gadget. “Gave you a painkiller shot – no aspirin, don’t worry. But I think it’s passed over anyway.”

He licks dry lips and props himself up on the bed. He thinks he feels worse for the painkiller than he felt the other times without it. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

He gazes out there at the longest night he’s known. “I ran some tests the first time it happened.”

“This is the third, did you know?”

“Second,” he says, and then pauses, giving her a sharp glance. “Oh.”

“Yes.” She gives him a resigned, sad smile and pockets the gadget. “So, when did you take a temporal bullet for someone? And who was it? Friend or foe?”

 _Does it matter?_ He shrugs and smiles weakly at her. “I suppose I’ll find out eventually. It’ll be something to look forward to.”

“And in the meantime,” says River, “I’m sure I can come up with something to counter the effects, but you really should be more careful.”

He shrugs. Careful. It’s not really him. It’s never been him, and it’s certainly not her. He thinks about saying something about pots and kettles, but hasn’t got his breath back yet.

River’s face softens, and she reaches for his hand, lowers her lips to kiss his fingers. “I know. Just tell me as soon you’re feeling stronger, sweetie.” She grins. “I’ve got far more interesting things planned.”

“Yes. You might have mentioned that once before.”

Nothing’s ever in quite the right order any more, but that would be boring, wouldn’t it?


End file.
